


Swan Song

by gladiatortale



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Cold War, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Drama, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25279150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gladiatortale/pseuds/gladiatortale
Summary: April 1992. Interpol Agent Victor Nikiforov has returned to New York on assignment for very personal case. The star of the Bolshoi Ballet, Yuri Plisetsky, has gone missing.April 1987. Lilia Baranovskaya, former Soviet ballerina and the current director of the American Ballet Theatre, has called together premier dancers from all over the world for a summer season at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50





	1. You Know How I Feel

_NEW YORK CITY, 1992._

“Are you sure you’re not gonna fall?”

It took every ounce of will power that Mila Babicheva possessed not to snap her head around and shout at the young man’s accusation. She had breezed through routines countless times more difficult than this. She had preformed for queens and emperors. Duchesses and dictators had thrown roses at her feet. She’d moved scores of audiences to tears with just the grace and fluidity of her body, and he had the _gaul_ to ask her if she could handle six inch heels?

_Yes! I’m more than sure I can handle a simple jazz routine, you cretin!_ she wanted to say.

But she didn’t.

“Yes, Henry, I’m sure I’m not going to fall,” she said instead, slowly turning to face him with a coy smile.

The slim rectangular catwalk that extended out from the main stage creaked slightly as she jumped on it. Henry gave her an odd look as she stomped her full weight on the weak spot. It was study enough, she could throw herself all over the stage and it would still barely make a sound. But she could never again bring herself to trust any stage completely. She had made that mistake only once before.

“Good,” he replied, “because if one of you falls off the stage, I’m not gonna get paid this month, and I —“

Mila grabbed his face, the softness of his cheeks pressing in against her nails. His eyes darted around the room, refusing to meet her gaze. He looked for anyone, anything to distract him, but in the emptiness of the small theater, there was no where to look expect straight at her. Mila was a patient woman, she could wait.

After a few anxious moments, Henry sheepishly lifted his eyes to meet her stern expression.

“Trust me when I say you will _never_ see me fall off that stage,” she said, pushing him back as she let go of his face, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good,” she said, forcing a smile as she straightened and turned back to the stage, “Now get out. I need to finish up before people get here.”

“Yes, Miss Nikiforov.”

The pseudonym still made her smile. She wondered if somewhere out there Victor was laughing at her for borrowing his surname. _“I know you’ve always been a fan Mila, but this is going a bit far don’t you think?”_ She could almost hear him say it.

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Victor,” she said to the empty room, “I thought you knew that.”

“Knew what?” said a voice by the door.

Mila wobbled slightly on her heel, shocked that anyone replied.

She squinted as she tried to make out the shadowy figure standing by the side door, silhouetted by the daylight beyond. _He’s the right height,_ she thought, _but that’s impossible…_

The latch clicked together as the door slammed shut and the figure came into focus. Mila’s shoulders dropped as the young bartender smiled at her. Tommy was a sweetie, soft hearted, and at times even charming, but not at all who she’d been hoping to see. _Of course it couldn’t be Victor,_ she thought, scolding herself at the ridiculous notion.

“What did you think I knew?” he tried again.

“Nothing Tommy,” Mila said, shaking her head, “just working my way through a new program.”

“Planning on premiering it tonight?” he said, picking up the wet rag as he slipped behind the bar.

Mila nodded, she was only half listening. Her mind had drifted away to the thoughts of her old life and her even older friends.

She imagined little Yuri, all grown up and strutting around the Bolshoi like the primadonna he pretended not to be. Whether he’d finally been promoted to principal like he deserved all along. She liked to think Georgi had finally found someone he loved, and who loved him in return.

But she thought of the silver-haired menace most often of all. It was hard _not_ to think of Victor when she heard his name every where she went. She wondered how often he smiled these days, and if he’d gotten back to teasing people like he used to. She didn’t like to think that he had changed, even though she knew it was probably true.

They’d likely all changed, and she hadn’t been there to see it.

“Miss Nikiforov?”

A small voice snapped her out of her musings. Little Priscilla stood with Mila’s blonde wig nervously clutched in her fingers. She wondered if Priscilla was a stage name too, or if they girl’s parents had just had a particularly theatrical bent.

“Are you ready for your fitting, miss?” she said, lifting the wig ever so slightly, as if to show her intention for disturbing the dancer.

Mila smiled as she hopped down from the catwalk.

“Of course,” she said, “hair and makeup is my favourite part of the day.”

Priscilla practically glowed as she lead the way back to the dressing room. Just past her eighteenth birthday, Priscilla worshipped the ground Mila walked on and brought a burst of joy to dancer’s pre-show routine. Their chats ranged from therapeutic to just plain gossipy, and even occasionally gave Mila a chance wax poetic about her life on a very different stage.

As the young woman switched from eye make-up back to adjusting Mila’s wig, Mila leaned over to the cassette player beside the mirror. Out of the small machine poured the mournful voice that would accompany tonight’s performance.

“Nina Simone?” Pricilla asked, bobby pins pressed between her lips.

“The Queen of Soul,” said Mila, inspecting her wig in the mirror.

“I thought that was Aretha Franklin?”

Mila paused, tapping her finger against her chin, “Well then, Nina Simone can be the High Priestess of Soul.”

“I like that title even better,” said Pricilla, leaning beside Mila with an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“Me too.”

Henry knocked against the open door, keeping his distance after their earlier confrontation, “Five minutes, Mila,” he said.

“Thank you, Henry,” she replied with a nod.

“Good luck, Miss Nikiforov,” said Priscilla, bowing ever so slightly before following Henry down the hall.

Left alone in her thoughts, Mila made a few final adjustments to her appearance. As she tucking a few fly away hairs behind her ear, her eyes drifted to the singular personal item pinned to the mirror. The merry band of eight smiled back at her as she pressed her fingers against the corner of the photograph.

_If only we had known._

“Mila!” Henry shouted, his voice carrying from out in the hallway, “Sixty seconds!”

She stood up from vanity, winked at her reflection, and grounded herself on the sound of her jet black heels clacking against the floor.

_“Ladies and gentlemen, our final act of the night, the Siren of Stalingrad, the Temptress of the Russian East…”_

She rolled her eyes behind the curtain. Mila Babicheva had never been to Stalingrad, or the fabled “Russian East.” Before moving to New York, she’d barely stepped foot outside of Moscow. But maybe Mila Nikiforov was different. Maybe she had been everywhere. Maybe she was an exotic, world traveller, without a care in the world. Maybe _that’s_ who these people expected her to be.

_Well,_ she thought with a sigh, _if that’s who they want, then that’s who they’ll get._

_“I present to you, the one… the only… Mila Nikiforov!”_

[Nina Simone’s haunting _a cappella_ poetry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNMKGYiJpvg) poured into the small theater, seamlessly replacing the applause as silence fell and all eyes in the room focused on the stage.

**_Birds flying high, you know how I feel…_ **

Using the thigh-high slit of her dress to its maximum advantage, Mila let her right leg step out from behind the curtain. _Just_ her right leg.

**_Sun in the sky, you know how I feel…_ **

She smiled as the whoops and cheers echoed from the other side of the barely parted velvet fabric. Whatever life may throw her way, Mila would always know how to put on a show.

**_Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel…_ **

Parting the curtain with her ankle, she heard the audible gasp as she stepped into the spotlight. The rhinestones at the hem of dress shone like stars against the inky midnight hue of the gown.

**_It’s a new dawn… it’s a new day… it’s a new life for me…_ **

Mila wrapped her arms around herself in time with the words. She practically floated above the stage as she stepped out on to the catwalk, and faced the crowd.

**_And I’m feeling… good._ **

Her face snapped forward and she stared directly into the blinding spotlight. Whirls of whistles and cheers erupted from all sides, as the heady jazz poured out of the speakers. No matter how small the stage or what role she performed, Mila was a goddess and the audience worshipped her.

As the song neared its conclusion, Mila slid into her final pose. It was the highlight of this routine. She would glide down the catwalk and lay back, allowing her head to hang off the edge off the stage. Given the low cut neckline, the lucky guest sitting at table three would likely be eye to eye with more than just her piercing gaze. The shocked expression was always worth the trick.

But tonight, Mila was the one most shocked of all. Even upside down and obscured by the light, she could recognize the outline of his shoulders and the distinctive head of silver hair.

Wolf whistles sounded all around her, reminding Mila she was still in the midst of a performance. She quickly collected herself, not daring to look back at the table. She gave one final bow to the audience as the music faded away.

Her heart was pounding as she slipped behind the curtain. _Stop it,_ she told herself, _calm down. It was a trick of the light. The spotlights are messing with you._ But no matter what she said, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen him. That he was really here.

“Henry!” she said running straight for the stage manager at top speed. He flinched at the sound of her voice, still a bit skittish from earlier.

“What? What!”

“Table three, by the corner, downstage left,” she said, “what colour is the man’s hair?”

“His hair? Mila, what does it matter what colour—“

“Just look Henry!”

Henry bolted out of his seat. He squinted as he wedged his face between the curtain and the wall to look out at the audience.

“There’s no one at table three, Mila,” said Henry.

“What?”

“Take a look,” he said, motioning to gap in the curtain.

She didn’t want to believe him. She didn’t want to believe her own eyes. But there was no denying it. The small table was completely empty.

Whether it was a trick of the light or simply a mistake, it didn’t matter now. Whoever it was that she’d seen sitting at table three was long gone.

* * *

What remained of the night passed in a blur of compliments and poorly brewed instant coffee. The thought of seeing Victor at the theater once in one evening was already making her head spin. But twice? She was beginning to worry she was going insane.

“That was brilliant, Miss Nikiforov!”

The call of the stage hand running up beside her pulled her back from her clouded thoughts.

“Thank you, Jamie,” she said. He was a sweet boy, unmistakably nursing a crush on her, but sweet nonetheless.

“Honestly it might have been your best yet,” he said.

“Thank you very much.”

“I know it isn’t much, but…” he stammered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he held his hands behind his back, “…but this is for you.”

He handed her a small cluster of lilies mixed together with white roses. The gesture warmed her heart and the white flowers reminded her of home.

“I know you’ve probably gotten much better bouquets than this one, but I just really wanted —“

“They’re perfect, Jamie,” she said with a soft smile, “thank you for thinking of me.”

He stopped, mouth gapping as he searched for a reply. But after a moment of silence, he simply snapped his mouth shut, retreating back down the hall and out of sight.

She held the flowers up to her nose, sighing at the pleasant aroma as she stepped into her dressing room and began removing her wig. Perhaps it was wrong to indulge his blossoming crush by accepting the flowers. But really, what was the harm in giving him a bit of hope? However misplaced it might be.

A soft knock sounded against the door.

“It’s open!” said Mila, resetting her wig on its stand.

Just as she and Priscilla had their pre-show routine, Mila had created post-show routine of her own. She would smile, accept the tokens people offered when they stopped by her dressing room, and maybe even flirt with her admirers if it could land her a free dinner uptown. It had been too long since she’d been to _La Caravelle_ , and she was dying to know what they’d done to the menu.

“That was some performance, Miss Babicheva.”

Mila froze. Her mind had been playing tricks on her all day, but this might be the worst trick of all. Maybe this was her brain’s not-so-subtle way of telling her she was in fact going mad. Have the spectral faces of her friends haunt her at work, because there was no way this was real.

“Hello, Mila.”

She stared into the mirror, eyes fixed on the figure over her shoulder. His hair might have been cropped far shorter than she remembered, his eyes wearier than the should have been, and his signature brilliant smile was missing, but here he was. Standing in the doorway of her dressing room like they were back at the Bolshoi. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like nothing had changed.

“Victor.”

Mila was already half way across the room before she even finished saying his name. She leapt into his open arms, allowing her full weight collapse against his chest. She couldn’t have told you when or even why she started crying, but she knew she couldn’t stop. She didn’t even try.

Victor held her close, murmuring soft words in Russian as he stroked her hair, and let her cry for as long as she needed.


	2. A Telegram and a Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mila and Victor catch up. Some painful old memories are brought back to life.

_NEW YORK CITY, 1992._

“Better?” said Victor, his voice was barely above a whisper as he ran his thumb across Mila’s tear stained cheeks. She nodded, pushing up from his chest.

“You’re just lucky my show is over,” she said, “I would have strangled you if you ruined my make up before I got on stage.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said with a smile.

Mila let out a ragged sigh as she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She held back the urge to dry her hand on her dress as the watery remains of mascara coated her fingers.

“I know you’re not great with… you know…” Mila motioned between her face and the small stain she left on his dress shirt, “this kind of stuff, so thank you.”

“I’m not completely heartless,” said Victor, “and you seemed like you needed to let it out.”

Mila scoffed, “More than I realized, I guess.”

Her head was spinning. Just a few hours ago she was convinced, for better or worse, that she’d left her life in Russia behind for good. But despite her every expectation, Victor was here. Waltzing up to her dressing room and holding her while she bawled in his arms.

“Frankly, I think the shock of seeing you just pushed me over the edge,” said Mila, “I don’t think I expected you to ever come back to New York.”

She paused, suddenly realizing what she’d said.

“Why _are_ you back in New York?”

“It’s bit of a long story,” Victor replied.

“Well,” said Mila, walking over to the electric kettle beside the window. This would be her third cup of evening, but after the shock of Victor’s surprise appearance, she wasn’t planning on getting much sleep anyway, “Any good story deserves a good cup of coffee.”

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ story,” said Victor.

“And I didn’t say it was _good_ coffee,” Mila replied, “but it would be rude of me not to offer.”

Mila motioned to the mismatched leather couches across from the mirror. Victor let out as sigh as he dropped down on the slightly larger of the two. Without the added daylight from the windows, the dressing room was actually quite dark. The bulbs surrounding the mirror pushed their warm incandescent light out as far as they could, like the muted embers of a fireplace. It might not have been the most glamorous dressing room she’d ever had, but it was cozy, private, and, in the smallest way, felt like home.

“So tell me, Miss _Nikiforov,”_ said Victor, “are you pretending to be my wife or my sister?”

Mila scoffed as she stirred the two mugs, “Neither. Your name is simply harder to pronounce than mine.”

“Oh, now you’re just splitting hairs.”

“Nevertheless,” Mila continued, setting Victor’s mug down on the low table between them, “I thought it gave me a more… exotic flair.”

Victor grimaced as he took a sip of the instant sludge, “And you stuck with the masculine form because…?”

“The Americans can’t tell the difference,” she said, “and honestly, if I added one more vowel, it probably would’ve given them an aneurysm.”

“Fair enough,” said Victor, smiling against the rim of his mug.

“By the way, how did you know where to find me? It’s not exactly like Mila Nikiforov is listed in the Yellow Pages.”

Victor scoffed, clearly amused by the question. She was almost sorry she asked. He reached into his coat pocket, unfolding a flyer on the table, “I saw this posted in Madison Square Park.”

Mila nearly spat out her coffee as she took in the sight of herself on the poster. The colours were over saturated almost beyond recognition. The soft blonde of her signature wig glowed in neon yellow, and curling emerald script crossed the length flyer naming the headlining act,

_The Russian Enchantress, Mila Nikiforov!_

“Oh wow,” said Mila, sighing into a laugh as she held the flyer up for closer inspection, “Not my best promotional poster, I’ll admit, but I’m still glad it helped you find me.”

Victor smiled, “My deduction skills have improved since I changed careers, but I didn’t exactly need to be Porfiry Petrovich to guess that this might be you.”

“Changed careers to what exactly?” said Mila.

“Missing Persons Detective, Interpol,” said Victor, “Chris actually recommended me for the job when I went to visit him in Paris. Some nonsense about ‘the discipline needed to be a dancer’ being useful for investigative work.”

She stopped halfway to a sip of her coffee. He raised an eyebrow at her, assessing her disbelief, before tossing his badge on the table between them. She flipped open the leather badge protector. Victor’s hair was even shorter in the accompanying photo. _Guess he really went for the chop,_ she thought as she ran her fingers over the picture. Scanning over the basic details, her eyes stopped on one line in particular.

In bold blue print was the name Victor’s specialization:

**Criminal Interrogations.**

“Victor,” said Mila as she placed the badge back on the table, “Are we hear to chat as friends, or am I being accused of something?”

His expression shifted, “That depends on how you answer my next question.”

His voice was still light as he spoke, but there was an unmistakable malice behind his eyes. A darkness that she had never seen him use off stage. Whatever he was investigating was personal.

“Go on then,” said Mila, “Ask away.”

“When was the last time you saw Yuri Plisetsky?”

“The same day I last saw you.”

“You’re sure?” said Victor.

“Yes, until today I thought you and Yuri both still lived in Russia, but now…” she trailed off, her thoughts beginning to tumble out faster than her words, “Victor, what’s going on?”

Victor sighed, “Yuri is missing, Mila.”

“What?”

Mila’s heart pounded in her ears. _That couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be._

“How do you know he’s missing?”

“Officially, he isn’t,” he said, “If you picked up the phone right now and called the Bolshoi press office they’d tell you he’s taking time off for personal reasons. They know he’s missing, they just don’t want the world to know yet.”

“Then how did _you_ find out he was missing?”

“Yakov called me,” said Victor, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms.” His words drifted off as he combed his fingers through his silver locks, an anxious tic lingering from the days when his hair was much longer, “Nevertheless, I got a call from Yakov about four months ago when Yuri didn’t return for rehearsal after the Christmas holiday.”

 _Four months._ The words rattled around inside Mila’s head, scratching and clawing at her memories of a sweet boy with a short temper. Yuri had been missing for four months and she didn’t even know.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” said Victor.

“What?” she said, unsure if she’s heard him correctly.

“I can see it on your face, you’re thinking about the ‘what ifs.’ What if I had been there? What if he had been here with me? Thinking about ‘what _if,’_ doesn’t change ‘what _is.’_ It gets you no where,” he looked down at his mug, swirling the coffee as if searching for answers, “believe me, I would know.”

Mila reached across the table, taking his hand. She wouldn’t dare say so out loud, but she knew he wasn’t just talking about Yuri.

“Why New York?” said Mila, “I mean, I’m thrilled to see you, but I don’t understand what Yuri’s disappearance has to do with the city.”

“Three weeks ago, a telegram was sent to the Interpol Headquarters in Lyon.”

Victor pulled the crumpled paper out of his coat pocket. Frankly if Mila hadn’t been there to see it with her own eyes, she might not have believed him. But there it was, black print on a yellow paper, a genuine Western Union Telegram.

**Cancel your summer plans, children.**

**The City of the Swans.**

**YP**

“I’m still confused,” said Mila, “what made you think that this letter was telling you Yuri was in New York?”

“Three things,” he said, laying the paper down on the table between them, “actually, you should be able to tell me the first one.”

Mila raised an eyebrow at him, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten,” Victor said with a smile, “What was the first thing Yakov said when he told us we were headed to New York?”

Mila paused for just a moment, then shook her head. She chuckled as she remembered the look of their irate ballet master storming into the rehearsal studio to announce the trip, “Cancel your summer plans, children.”

“Precisely,” said Victor, “secondly, The City is capitalized, which could in theory mean _any_ city, but the third reason confirms the second.”

Victor ran his hands over the heavily creased paper as he spoke. The ink, while still legible, had begun to fade. Mila watched as Victor traced his fingers over the words. She couldn’t imagine how many hours he had stared at this paper in the past three weeks. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know.

“The city of the swans…” said Mila, “Swan Lake. He’s talking about the performance in ’87.”

“Exactly.”

“But why bother with a telegram? Its cryptic as hell and ridiculously old fashioned.”

“I think if he _could_ have sent us a message the normal way, he would have.”

Mila’s chest clenched as she realized the meaning behind Victor’s words, “You think someone’s holding him? That he’s been kidnapped?”

“Really, I’m not sure what to think,” said Victor, “All I know is, wherever Yuri is, whoever he’s with, they’re not letting him use a telephone or get in contact with anyone in Russia.”

“Well, leave it to _kotenok_ to get crafty when someone doesn’t give him what he wants,” said Mila.

Victor scoffed, “Some things never change.”

Mila glanced over to the glowing electric clock beside the cassette player. 11:24pm glared at her in angry red, reminding her that she had a matinee performance tomorrow.

“I should really be getting home,” she said, pulling off her black heels in exchange for a far more comfortable pair of flats.

“Had enough of me for one night?” he said.

“You? Never,” she said with a wink, reaching for the tissues on the vanity, “but if I miss my show tomorrow, I don’t get paid.”

"Fair enough," he said, “I’ll wait outside while you finish up."

As Mila finished with her nightly routine, she was half way to the door when the photograph on the mirror caught her eye. She hesitated just for a moment before pulling in from its place and shoving it in her coat pocket.

Victor stood under the green theater awning, his black trench coat contrasting nicely with his silver hair. A large raindrop splashed into Mila’s head as she stepped up beside him.

“Ah, dammit.” She grabbed the collar of her coat, pushing it up as far as it would go to try and cover her head.

Victor reached inside his coat and pulled out a collapsable umbrella.

“How about I walk you home?” he said, covering her with the umbrella.

“I’m not 17 anymore, Victor. I am more than capable than walking myself home.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

She allowed herself a small grin as she linked her arm with his, “You were never very good at taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

“One of my many flaws,” he said.

“I’m just a couple blocks that way,” she said pointing down the street.

They chatted as they walked. Although neither said so out loud, both Mila and Victor privately reveled in the familiarity of the walk. Memories of late night journeys after performances at the Bolshoi hummed peacefully in the back of their minds.

Mila slowed her steps as she turned the umbrella down her street. It was a pretty tree-lined avenue in the West Village. Wrought iron and ivy mingled together with brick and marble. If her apartment was anything to go by, Victor could take comfort in the assurance that Mila’s new job paid well.

“This is me,” she said pointing to a four-story with a large wooden door.

She sighed as she turned to face him, worrying the heel of her shoe against the pavement.

“I wasn’t sure whether to give this to you,” her hand was in her coat pocket, through the thin fabric Victor could see that she was gripping something tightly in her fist, “but… here.”

She presented him the photograph from her dressing room. The image left him stunned.

He remembered that night so vividly. Chris and his gaudy blue jacket, winking at the camera as he stood close to a grinning Phichit. A much younger Mila and Georgi linking arms, a drink in each of their hands. Little Yuri sticking his tongue out at the camera and leaning against Otabek for support. And in the center, Yuuri Katsuki with his perfect, radiant smile, sat beside Victor. They had been holding hands just out of the frame.

Mila waved her hand dismissively as he tried to pass the photo back, “I’ve got a copy of the negatives lying around somewhere. And besides,” she paused, offering him a crooked smile, “I want you to have it. Something to remind you of happier times.”

His breath caught in his throat as guilt wrapped its icy fingers around his heart.

“I’m sorry, Mila,” said Victor, “I’m sorry I even asked. If you knew where Yuri was, he’d be home by now. I’m just… I feel like running out of people to talk to who might know where he is.”

“I know, Victor, I know,” said Mila, wrapping her arms around herself as she stepped closer under the umbrella, “But, we’re not alone in this city. New York is littered with old friends if you just look in the right places. Maybe someone out there knows more than I do.”

Victor scoffed, “I don’t really think Phichit wants to talk to me.”

"That’s not what I meant,” she said. A startled look flashed across Victor’s face before fading as he looked down at the photograph, “…but you already knew that.”

He stared at the picture with such longing, transfixed by the visible happiness he no longer felt, completely unable to look away.

“I can’t, Mila,” said Victor, “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“In my experience, it’s often best to start with hello.”

He continued to stare, lost in his own sea of ‘what ifs,’ as she wrapped her fingers around his own. Against the lashing of the rain, she almost missed his whispered reply, “I just can’t.”

She shifted her arms, winding them around his waist as she tucked her head beneath his chin, “I know this might not mean much coming from me, but Yuuri wouldn’t have done what he did if he didn’t care about you.”

They stood in silence, just holding each other, neither one really knowing who needed the support more.

“Just think about it,” said Mila, breaking the silence.

Victor let out a ragged sigh and nodded.

“Don’t you start crying now,” said Mila, pointing a finger at his nose, “What would Yakov say if he saw his favourite students blubbering like idiots?”

Victor smiled, “Probably something like, ‘Pull yourselves together! I raised you better than this!’”

Mila pulled in a breath through clenched teeth, “Yeah… that sounds about right.”

Her coat pocket jingled as she rummaged around for her keys. She held one of her billowy sleeves over her head as she trotted up the front steps and stood beneath the covered stoop.

“We’ll find him, Victor,” said Mila, “Yuri’s always been a fighter. If he’s still in New York, we’ll find him.”

Victor nodded. He didn’t know if she was right. There was no guarantee Yuri was still in New York, or that they’d ever find him. But he smiled anyway, trying to force an outward look of hope he didn’t inwardly feel.

“And if you ever need to chat, well,” she motioned to the front door, “you already know where to find me.”

He chuckled, “You, unlike Yuri, were much easier to find.”

“Touché.”

She twirled her wrist above her head before dropping low with a theatrical bow.

“Goodnight, _Detective_ Nikiforov.”

“Goodnight, Miss Babicheva.”

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, leaving Victor alone in the rain. As he stood there, staring down at the pavement, Mila’s word’s continued to play in his mind.

_We’re not alone in this city. New York is littered with old friends…_

He held his hand out beyond the edge of his umbrella. The rain was finally beginning to let up. He sighed, closed the umbrella, and began his long walk back uptown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Porfiry Petrovich - the detective in Dostoevsky's 'Crime and Punishment'  
> 2\. kotenok - kitten in Russian
> 
> Hello!  
> Probably should have introduced myself on the first chapter, but hey, better late than never.  
> I was struck by a bolt of inspiration a few days ago for an essentially fully formed Yuri on Ice Ballet AU, so here we are!  
> For clarity's sake, it's best to consider chapter 1 and 2 as the sort of "prologue." The next chapter is the first of of the chapters in 1987 and where a large portion of the story takes place.
> 
> Going forward I plan to have a more consistent posting schedule. Ideally I'd like to post every two weeks but at an ABSOLUTE MINIMUM I will post once per month.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read, bookmarked and left kudos so far! Can't wait to share more!


	3. Cancel Your Summer Plans, Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bolshoi dancers receive an unexpected letter for the defected ex-prima ballerina, Lilia Baranovskaya.

_MOSCOW, 1987._

Victor knew it was never a good thing to be summoned by Yakov this close to the end of the season.

The blue and gold light of the Moscow evening spilled in through the windows of the Bolshoi’s top floor as Victor made his way towards the dressing rooms. The chimes of Spasskaya Tower a few blocks away told him he was already late for the meeting. He loosened his scarf as he picked up the pace.

The company had just wrapped up _La Sylphide_ a few days before, and while Victor was looking forward to a nice break over the summer holiday, he could only really enjoy the break if he knew he’d be coming back next season.

He was pushing twenty-eight and had suffered more sprains and knee injuries than any _responsible_ 28-year-old should have, or so Yakov liked to tell him. Victor’s joints popped so often during warm-ups that it had become a running joke amongst the more junior members of the company; “Remember to stretch in the evenings or you’ll sound like Victor when you get old!”

He didn’t exactly like being thought of as old, but he couldn’t exactly deny it either. Posters as far back as the ’78 season had his face on it, signature flowing locks and all. Victor had been promoted to principal before half the current corps had even been hired, even before some of them had even taken up ballet seriously. He’d paid his dues, certainly, but his years in the spotlight were beginning to catch up with him. These days Yakov’s old proverb — _early promotion, early retirement,_ — lingered in the back of his mind far more often than it used to. Maybe this next season really would be his last.

Quickly running a hand through the tangles in his hair, Victor took a deep breath as he turned the doorknob, ready to face his doom. But instead of Yakov’s stern expression, he was greeted by the familiar outline of three figures sitting in the dark. He flipped on the light.

Yuri’s foot bobbed against the deep mahogany floorboards, flickering in time with the tinny luminescent bulbs. Mila sat playing with the zipper on her jacket as she leaned her chair back on just two legs, and Georgi offered him as half-hearted wave as the lights above their heads finally settled.

Victor knew it was possible for Yakov to find a reason to fire him, — lord knows, he’d tried the man’s patience enough over the years — but it was _nearly_ impossible that he would fire his four best dancers in one fell swoop.

“Have you three just been sitting here in the dark?” he asked.

“The sun set pretty quickly, and Yakov only called us in here ten minutes ago,” said Mila. She paused, searching for her next word, “well, he called us in here, and then… well, he kind of got all flustered and pissed because he forgot something.”

“Oh dear,” said Victor.

A catlike grin rolled across his face as he turned his attention to the blonde teen who was decidedly not paying attention, “What did you do this time _kotenok?”_

“Me?” Yuri shouted, indignation flaring up in his tone.

“Yes, you. Who else would I be calling little kitten?”

 _“I_ didn’t do anything. Ask the she-devil over there,” said Yuri, jamming his thumb in Mila’s direction, “she’s usually up to something.”

 _“Me?”_ said Mila, “I am an angel! A vision of grace and poise!”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” said Georgi out of the corner of his mouth. Mila threw her shoe at him.

Victor laughed as he dropped down into the seat beside her, “You’re graceful on stage, and that’s all that matters.”

“Thank you,” she huffed.

After sulking for several minutes, she leaned closer to Victor and muttered something that sounded a lot like, _“can I play with your hair?”_ to which Victor agreed.

“So why do you think we’re really here?” he said.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Mila, carding her fingers through the half finished braid, “Although…”

Victor, Yuri, and Georgi turned to face her as she let the word hang in the air.

“Don’t leave us in suspense!” said Yuri, tapping her on the shoulder.

She smiled, letting them stew for a few moments as she turned Victor’s head back towards the mirror and began a second attempt at at a French braid.

“He was on the phone when I came in this morning to tidy up my locker and dressing room. It sounded like he was talking to a woman.”

“Yakov doesn’t know any women,” said Yuri.

Mila shrugged, “I don’t know. But who ever it was, he did not sound happy.”

The door slammed open, making the group of dancers jump as Yakov stormed in. Mila yanked on the end of Victor’s hair, ruining the braid and pulling his head back so quickly he nearly toppled out of his chair.

“Cancel your summer plans, children,” said Yakov, “I have an announcement to make.”

Victor rubbed his scalp, half expecting to feel a premature bald spot, “What kind of announcement?”

“The kind that you have no right to refuse,”said Yakov, “so don’t even try. I know you just love being difficult.”

Victor gasped in fake affront, clutching his chest. Yakov simply rolled his eyes. His shoulders hunched forward slightly as he leaned back against one of the dressing room tables. He sat carding two letters between his fingers; one a muted yellow government notice, the other a crisp white page folded into thirds.

“What’s this all about, Yakov?” said Georgi.

Yakov sighed. He passed Mila the pale yellow page as the boys crowded around her shoulders.

**_Memorandum to_ ** **The Moscow State Academy of Choreography _and_ The Bolshoi Ballet Theatre.**

**_Exit Visas for the term of FIVE months granted to the following citizens of the Soviet Union,_ **

**_Comrade Mila Babicheva_ **

**_Comrade Victor Nikiforov_ **

**_Comrade Yuri Plisetsky_ **

**_Comrade Georgi Popovich_ **

**_Approved by the The Ministry of Culture._ **

**_Undersigned by the_ ** **_General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union._ **

Mila ran her thumb over the cramped, cursive signature at the bottom the message, _MIKHAIL GORBACHEV._

The quartet sat in stunned shock for several moments. _Exit visas with their names attached._ It was unreal.

It was Yuri who broke the silence first. 

“What the fuck, Yakov?” he said, snatching the paper from Mila’s limp grasp, _“Five months?_ Who asked for this? When are we leaving? Where the fuck are we going?”

Mila’s eyes followed Yuri as he volleyed back and forth between Yakov and the far window. His anxious questions tumbling out faster than Yakov could keep up with. Victor grabbed the letter back from Yuri and scanned through the spartan message again. _Exit visas with their names attached._ It was unbelievable. 

Victor had been bound to the confines Leningrad, Moscow, and the train lines between for his entire life. He had barely seen the Russian countryside, let alone anywhere outside the Soviet Union, and he knew it was much the same for Yuri, Mila, and Georgi. The cultural exchanges had come to a grinding halt in the past decade after one-too-many defections of artists and musicians had soured the Central Committee on the idea of letting their most talented citizens out of the country. Victor had only just missed the selection for the last European tour when it concluded twelve years ago. 

But this? This was different. No ballet anywhere in the world could be done with just four dancers. 

_What is this?_

Victor held out his arm to stop Yuri’s pacing.

“While his delivery might have been less than succinct,” he said, flashing Yuri a crooked smile, “Yura is right to ask.”

Yakov cleared his throat as he handed Victor the second letter, “You’re leaving in three days for New York City.”

Victor unfolded the letter. The shimmering silver and gold logo of the American Ballet Theater sat at the top of the page.

**_To whom this may concern,_ **

**_The presence of four (4) of your dancers from the_ Bolshoi Theatre _is requested to take part in a summer festival unlike any the ballet world has ever seen. A secondary letter has been sent directly to your specific government to indicate which dancers we would like to request…_**

While the letter was certainly written with more warmth than the government directive, it too felt strangely detached. As if it had been trimmed down to a very polished and polite form letter for an entirely unknown reason.

**_To express the seriousness of this undertaking, I have included a list of the ballet companies who will also take part in this monumental endeavor…_ **

There were no specific names listed, but beside each theater was a number indicating how many dancers planned to attend.

** _Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow (4)_ **

** _Paris Opera Ballet, Paris (5)_ **

** _The Royal Ballet, London (3)_ **

** _La Scala Theatre Ballet, Milan (3)_ **

** _Tokyo Ballet, Tokyo (2)_ **

** _The Royal Swedish Ballet, Stockholm (2)_ **

** _New York City Ballet, New York (5)_ **

** _Kirov Theatre, Leningrad (1)_ **

** _The Royal Danish Ballet, Copenhagen (2)_ **

** _Dutch National Ballet, Amsterdam (1)_ **

** _National Ballet of Canada, Toronto (1)_ **

The list continued rattling off single digit attendance from the greatest companies around the world. In total, it numbered around 45 dancers. Mila snatched the letter from Victor’s hands,

“My god,” she said, “it’s a who’s-who of the ballet world.”

“You will meet up with the dancer from the Kirov Theatre at the airport here in Moscow, and the five of you will change planes in Vienna,” said Yakov.

Their rivalry with the Leningrad theater was nothing more than superficial, but Victor couldn’t help but smile at the fact that the Bolshoi dancers would out number the Kirov dancer four to one.

He scanned quickly through the rest of the letter.

**_…Auditions will be held shortly after you arrive… two ballets in rotation… the remainder of the corps de ballet will be filled out by the ranks of the_ American Ballet Theatre _when their regular season concludes._**

**_I look forward to welcoming you all to New York City in a few days time._ **

**_Lilia Baranovskaya_ **

**_Ballet Master, American Ballet Theatre_ **

The signature was almost as shocking as Gorbachev’s. Suddenly it was clear why the letter felt so impersonal. It was clear why the person who sent it had tried their best to keep any and all emotions out of the message.

“We’re spending the summer with your ex-wife?” said Yuri.

Georgi thwacked him on the back of the head as Mila flashed him a murderous look.

“What?” said Yuri, “Are we just never going to talk about the divorce and her defection?”

Victor leaned closer to Mila, “I thought it was defection _then_ divorce.”

 _“Regardless,”_ said Yakov, retaking command, “…of our past, Lilia is an accomplished director and a brilliant dancer. Any previous relationship wemight have had doesn’t change that.”

Victor passed the letter back to Yakov who handled it with considerably more care than he had with the government notice. He refolded it neatly and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“But why now?” said Georgi, “I mean, Lilia may no longer be dictated to by Party directive, but I don’t quite understand why they are letting _us_ go.”

“Given _certain developments_ from this time last year, the General Secretary is eager to find ways to improve the image of the Soviet Union abroad.”

The group shifted uncomfortably. Yakov didn’t need to elaborate.

“So we’re basically being used as political bait?” said Yuri.

“Think of it more like… political show ponies,” said Yakov.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” asked Victor.

Yakov sighed, “Grigorovich seems to thinks so.”

The four dancers exchanged glances. It suddenly no longer mattered if they didn’t think it was a good idea. In the world of the Bolshoi Theatre, Yury Grigorovich’s word was law. Yakov Feltsman was being boxed into a corner by his ex-wife, Grigorovich, and the General Secretary himself. Victor couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.

“If everything goes to plan, this is going to be the ballet event of the century. We cannot afford to miss it, especially since the Kirov Theatre has already confirmed they’re sending someone.”

“In other words?” said Victor.

“Pack your bags children, you’re going to New York.”

* * *

Victor had never been to the airport before. Train stations, bus terminals, countless chauffeured car rides, yes, but never the airport. Sheremetyevo had doubled in size a decade ago in preparation for the 1980 Olympics. But even then, while Victor had fond memories of attending the closing ceremony with a handful of other Bolshoi dancers, he’d hardly noticed anyone else there who wasn’t Russian. To Victor, the airport was a novelty, more of an idea or a concept than a real place. At least it had been until that early morning in 1987.

The groggy group of four arrived at Terminal B just before dawn. The enormous overhead lights oppressively pushed away the darkness just outside the windows.

“Why is it so damn bright in here?” said Yuri, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“It’s not that bright,” said Mila, “you’re just terrible with mornings.”

Georgi, only marginally more alert than Yuri, huffed out a laugh as Yuri put on his sunglasses as slumped against his suitcase.

“Any idea what this other dancer looks like?” said Victor, scanning the nearly empty airport for the fifth Soviet representative and their KGB “chaperones.”

“Nope,” said Mila, “only that Yakov said he’s not actually from Leningrad. His father was connected to the space program somehow, way out in Zvezdograd of all places.”

 _“Great,”_ said Yuri, “we’re going to be toting around some country hick for five months. Just perfect.”

“Be nice, Yura,” said Victor.

Yuri huffed, slumping down so far that he was practically laying on the floor.

“Comrade Nikiforov?”

Victor turned to see two figures dressed in dark grey suits; an impressively tall blonde woman, and a man with brown hair pushed back with gel. Standing beside them was a handsome young man wearing a grey _KIROV_ sweatshirt.

“Yes? That’s me.”

The woman extended her hand, “It’s so lovely to meet you in person, my sister is quite the fan of yours. My name is Yulia Kuznetsova, and this is my colleague, Ilya Goncharov, we’ll be your chaperones for the duration of the trip.”

Ilya simply nodded his hello.

“Nice to meet you,” said Victor, “I look forward to seeing more of you both.”

“Oh, trust us comrade, if we’re doing our job correctly, you’ll hardly see us at all,” she said with a wink.

Victor was surprised by her honesty, but tried his best not to show it.

“Why don’t we get your bags checked in while you all introduce yourselves,” said Yulia, already taking Victor’s bag.

Victor waited until Yulia and Ilya were out of earshot before walking up to the Kirov dancer.

“My name’s Victor,” he said, extending his hand, “this is Mila and Georgi, and that lazy lump over there is Yura.”

Yuri had finally stood up. He hovered behind the other Bolshoi dancers as he inspected the young man over Victor’s shoulder.

“Otabek Altin,” said the dancer, “It’s nice to finally put faces to the names. Our dancing master has told me so much about all of you.”

“All good I hope?”

Otabek chuckled under his breath, “Let’s just say the man is a notorious gossip with a penchant for detail.”

“Well, I hope we’ve managed to make a good first impression.”

“As good as anyone can at…” he glanced down at his watch, “4:58 in the morning.”

It was Victor’s turn to laugh. 

Across the terminal Yulia called out to the groggy group of dancers and they made their way towards the gate.

* * *

Victor practically slept-walked through customs at the airport in Vienna. He was just barely able to process the attendants questions as she finished stamping his passport. _Yes, we are traveling to the United States. Yes, we are dancers from the Soviet Union. Yes, we are staying for five months.No, we do not intend to stay longer._

Their layover was long, but not quite long enough to take a proper nap. So it came as no shock to anyone that Georgi fell asleep the moment they they were airborne on their second and final flight.

Mila sat between Victor and the drooling Georgi, staring out at the trees and farmland below as they flew across the border into Germany. On the other side of the aisle, Otabek nodded off by the window while Yuri had his nose buried in a Russian-to-English dictionary. He soundlessly chewed through a phrase that appeared to be either “excuse me” or “asshole.” Given the teen’s colorful vocabulary, Victor was quite certain it was the latter.

And Victor? With his friends entirely occupied, Victor was finally able to make some headway in reading _The Brothers Karamazov._ It was a true Russian classic, and it had sat — unread — on his bookshelf for over a decade. But now, trapped on this eleven hour flight with no rehearsals, no costume fittings, no distractions, he was finally able to begin reading it. _Finally_ he could see for himself what made the story such a classic, what made it so wonderful, so captivating, so —

“Victor?”

Or not.

“Yes Mila?”

Mila was facing away from him. She stared out the window at the German countryside below, bathed in the golden yellow glow of early spring afternoons.

“Do you wonder what its like down there? What it’s like outside the Soviet Union?”

He set the book down. Victor had left Comrade Dostoevsky waiting for years now, he was certain the man wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer.

“From time to time,” he said, “But I suppose we’re going to spend the next couple of months finding out for ourselves, aren’t we?”

“I think about it a lot,” she said, turning to face him, “more than I even want to sometimes.”

Victor reached his hand across the armrest to rest atop her own.

“You’re thinking about the red button, aren’t you?” he asked.

She offered him a puzzled look.

“My father was a professor in Leningrad. Officially he taught economics, but he secretly loved philosophy and theology more than any other subject. He loved asking questions at home, even if my mother and I were the only ones around to listen. And when I was about ten or eleven, he told me about the red button.”

Mila pressed the palm of her hand against her chin as she leaned in closer, still confused, but captivated nonetheless.

“He said, _‘Vitya, if I tell you not to run in the house, what does that make you want to do?’_ Shamefully, I told him, _‘Papa, that makes me want to run in the house.’_ He jumped up from his chair and said, _‘Exactly!’”_

Mila leaned back as Victor mimicked his father’s animated reply.

 _“_ Naturally I was confused, but then he asked me, _‘If someone tells you, don’t push the red button, what do you want to do?’_ and I replied that I wanted to push the red button.”

“Now I’m the one who’s confused,” said Mila, “What does this have to do with me?”

“Pushing the red button is a metaphor. People always want something more when they’re specifically told they can’t have it; exclusivity breeds envy, and it makes you covet the things that you can’t have.”

He looked towards the window. Victor knew there was a reason his father had chosen a safe career rather than following his heart. He knew his father’s private opinions toed the line towards treason. But his father’s words had comforted him, even in his own moments of doubt, and reminded him to be thankful for the life he had and those he loved.

“It’s not wrong to want to know what else is out there, but just make sure you want to know because _you_ want it, not because someone is telling you that you can’t have it.”

Mila smiled, “Your father sounds like a wonderful man.”

“He was. Both my parents were. They were both almost forty by the time they had me, but you’d never really be able to tell. They had so much life and energy that you’d think they could’ve lived forever… Shame it doesn’t work like that.”

“We’ve known each other for almost a decade now,” Mila sighed, “why has it taken us this long to talk about your family?”

“I suppose when we’re on the ground, we’re too busy with warm-ups and costume changes to have time for much else.”

Mila smacked him on the arm as she flashed him a sly grin. It vanished just as quickly as it came.

“I never knew my parents.”

The statement hit Victor like a shock to the chest, although he did his best not to show it. Mila gripped the armrests tightly as she sat back in her seat.

“One of my mother’s colleagues had proposed to her before she met my father. He was a well-connected man in the government, the Ministry of Culture, actually. It would have been a wonderful match. But she didn’t love him, and refused his offer outright. He never really let that one go. Years later, the man informed on my father. He called him a traitor and accused him of all sorts of nasty things. They weren’t true, of course, so the government couldn’t drum up enough reasons to shoot him, but there was enough suspicion that they couldn’t just let him go. They sent him to Siberia for a sentence of ‘undetermined length’.”

She wagged her fingers in the air, marking the term as sarcastically as she could.

“This was the man’s opportunity to finally have my mother, save her from poverty and shame of being married to a traitor. But what the man _hadn’t_ counted on, was the fact that my mother might actually love my father so much, that she would chose to go with him to Siberia.”

Mila smiled at this, as if her favourite childhood story had crept back to the forefront of her mind.

“But Siberia was no place for an infant, so I stayed in Moscow with my mother’s best friend. I never saw them again, but I have to believe the man felt bad about how things turned out.”

Victor raised a questioning eyebrow.

Mila grinned, “How else could an orphan with no family connections be invited to the  _The Moscow State Academy of Choreography?_ I suspectsomeone with a guilty conscience in the Ministry of Culture had something to do with it.”

“Someone alert Comrade Chekov,” said Victor, “your parent’s love story is one for the ages.”

She smiled, tapping her nails against the hard plastic arm rest.

“Sometimes I want to be mad at them for leaving me behind, my mother especially. But something always stops me… Silly, isn’t it? I grew up abandoned by my family, but I still can’t really hate them.”

“Do you want to know something else my father said?”

“Am I having this conversation with you? Or with the late Professor Nikiforov?”

“Still me,” Victor smiled, “He told me that family isn’t just the people you share your blood with, but also the people you shed your blood for. Hardened war metaphors aside, your family is the people you care about, and those that care about you in return.”

“I care about _you,”_ said Mila, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Victor smiled as he stroked his fingers through her hair, “I care about you, too.”

* * *

“Can we go to bed now?” said Yuri, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The sun was setting as they drove over the Williamsburg Bridge. They’d just barely caught the sunrise in Moscow, and now, on the other side of the world, Victor could watch the sun slip behind the horizon in this new and glittering city.

A van had already been waiting in the loading bay of JFK after they collected their bags. Ilya had somehow found time to slip away and pick up the large van without any of them noticing. Victor was beginning to get the sense these sort of “magic tricks” were going to be a decently common occurrence.

On account of being the most well rested, Georgi and Otabek had been shoved in the back with the suitcases, while Yuri lounged between Victor and Mila, nursing a headache through jet-lagged motion sickness.

“No, not yet,” said Yulia, “There’s an informational meeting tonight for all the dancers at eight o’clock at the Metropolitan Opera House. Attendance is mandatory, jet lag or no jet lag.”

“Dammit.”

Mila leaned over to Otabek to answer the unasked question, “Yes. He’s always this cranky.”

“Hey!”

“It’s fine,” said Otabek, “It’s… charming, in a grouchy sort of way.”

Yuri furrowed his brow, “I’m too tired to figure out if I should be insulted or not.”

The van reached Lincoln Center just before eight. The ever silent Ilya nodded as Yulia waved goodbye to the group and disappeared around the corner. Victor half suspected she’d be climbing into a tree to get a good vantage point of all the exits.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Yuri, already halfway across the courtyard.

Otabek bowed slightly as he held out his hand to Mila, “Ladies first.”

“Such a gentleman!” she said, flashing a grin over her shoulder to Victor and Georgi, “He’s my new favourite.”

Three ornate chandeliers hung above the floor of the lobby, a glittering mimic of the city itself. Deep red carpets covered the entire floor and traced their way up the winding staircases. The particular shade of monochrome reminded Victor of home. The swooping porcelain railings doubled over themselves above their heads, blending in with the walls and disappearing around corners to complete the opulent scene.

“Fancy,” said Yuri.

Mila rolled her eyes. Victor scanned through the lobby for anyone who might be able to help orient this maze. A short woman wearing a dress and jacket which matched the burgundy carpets was just coming down the stairs. Victor decided to take the gamble.

“Excuse me,” said Victor, “Can you tell me where we might find Ms. Baranovskaya?”

She smiled, “Right this way.”

The woman expertly guided them to a door hidden in the back wall of the lobby and through the bowels of the backstage curtains. When they finally reached they stage itself, many of the other dancers were already waiting, clustered in small groups by language, country, and company. Victor nodded his thanks to the woman as she slipped back behind the curtain and out of sight.

“So are we expected to mingle…?” said Mila.

The sound of heels clacking against the stage suddenly cut above the chatter. A hush fell over the group as a tall thin woman walked across to center stage. Her jet black hair was pulled into a tight bun and she smiled like she knew the secrets of the universe.

In the dancing universe, she certainly did.

“Good evening, children.”

“So that’s where Yakov gets that from,” said Yuri. Victor bit back a laugh.

“My name is Lilia Baranovskaya. Welcome to New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. kotenok - Russian for kitten or kitty.  
> 2\. “one-too-many defections of artists and musicians” - Throughout the 60s and 70s, many famous Soviet dancers defected to the West while on tours with their ballet companies. Rudi Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov were two particularly famous real life examples, and in this world Lilia defected around the same time.  
> 3\. “ certain developments from this time last year” - Yakov is referring to the Chernobyl nuclear disaster from April of 1986. They do not continue the conversation because it was still a relatively “hush-hush topic” in 1987.  
> 4\. Yury Grigorovich - Director of the Bolshoi Ballet for over 30 years. He was the top-dog at the Bolshoi and a huge influence in 20th century ballet.  
> 5\. Zvezdograd - aka. “Star City;” known today as Baikonur, it is a small city in the Kazakh Steppe which houses the Baikonur Cosmodrome (the world's first and largest operational space launch facility).  
> 6\. “Comrade Chekov” - referring to Anton Chekov; famous 19th century Russian playwright and author. His best known works include The Cherry Orchard, Three Sisters, and The Seagull.  
> 7\. For the car nerds out there, they were driving an '84 Dodge Caravan back from the airport. Not very stylish, but very 1980s.
> 
> Hello!  
> So sorry for the delay, BUT this chapter is longer than the previous two, so I hope that makes up for the wait.  
> Yes, the Kirov dancer was Otabek. SHOCK, I KNOW. I had to find a logical way to get our brooding Kazakh fave into the story, and from a narrative standpoint it played to my advantage that all five of them would have been in the same country (Soviet Union) at the time.  
> The next chapter is the first from Yuuri’s perspective — get excited! 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who’s read, left kudos, and bookmarked this work. See you in two weeks! xoxo
> 
> Also, come scream with me on Tumblr, @gladiatortale


	4. Change is Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki arrives in New York for the first time, and is greeted at the airport by an old friend.

_TOKYO, 1987._

“What do you mean you aren’t coming?”

The heavy plastic receiver hung loosely in Yuuri’s hand as he added another 500 yen into the coin slot. He desperately needed to head to the gate, but Yuuri was completely frozen by the news that Yuuko was not running late from her apartment in Hibuya (as he’d hoped), but was in fact over a thousand kilometers away in Hasetsu.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Yuuri. Of course I’m still coming,” said Yuuko, “I’m just going to be a few days late.”

It was a balmy April afternoon, the green-tinted windows of the Narita’s main terminal made the already warm airport feel like a greenhouse. The burning hand of anxiety slowly creeping its way up his back was doing nothing to keep the temperature down.

“When did you leave?” Yuuri asked, “I just saw you at rehearsal yesterday afternoon.”

“Minako asked me to pick up a few things for Lilia at her apartment back home. And, well, I also wanted to… I hoped I could…”

Yuuri sighed on the other end of the phone, “And you missed your boyfriend, didn’t you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Yuuko snapped. She quickly cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure, “But I will admit, seeing him has certainly been an added bonus to the unexpected journey…” 

Yuuri rolled his eyes. Takeshi Nishigori had first declared his love for Yuuko Toyomura when they had still been in primary school. He’d sworn many times since that would marry absolutely no one else. Even her departure from Hatsesu for the Tokyo Ballet Gakko at fourteen could not sway Takeshi’s fragile heart from giving up on his love. Yuuri had been twelve at the time, and his own anxieties about moving to Tokyo had throughly distracted him from the romantic foils of his friends.

“You can’t leave him hanging forever, you know,” said Yuuri, “so unless you plan to tell him to move up here to Tokyo—“

 _“Anyway,”_ Yuuko said, pointedly trying to change the subject, “you know how Minako can be. She completely forgot about the extra notebooks she promised to send Lilia until yesterday afternoon…

Minako Okukawa, — former principal dancer with the American Ballet Theatre, one of the founders of the Tokyo Ballet, and his mother’s best friend, — had done more in her 52 years on this planet that most could hope to accomplish in a hundred. But there was no doubt in Yuuri’s mind that the dancing master would forget her own head if it wasn’t already attached to her shoulders.

“…so she called your sister to pick me up from the station, —"

“You saw Mari?”

“— but I don’t think she even let her know I was coming until I was already on the train…”

Yuuri stopped listening as Yuuko continued to chatter on. It shouldn’t still hurt. Yuuri had now lived in Tokyo longer than he’d lived in Hasetsu.

Busy seasons with the company left him with barely enough time to sleep and eat, let alone any time for the six hour train journey back to Kyushu. Even still, the pit of homesickness clinging to his chest as Yuuko continued to describe their hometown was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

It shouldn’t still hurt, but it did.

“You’re not pouting, are you?” said Yuuko, responding to Yuuri’s silence, “I promise next time I’ll remember to hire a sky-writer before I even consider going home without you.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he could imagine her sarcastic smile as clear as day. Yuuri tried to force a smile of his own, but didn’t trust himself to speak past the lump in his throat.

She sighed, “I am genuinely sorry I’m not flying out with you, I know you’re not a fan solo flights. But if it makes you feel any better, I now have to change in Honolulu _and_ Los Angeles, a full twenty-six hours in total!”

Yuuri scoffed, “Your suffering does make me feel mildly better.”

“I thought it might.”

Yuuri slipped an extra 100 yen into the slot, “I really should get going, the flight boards in less than an hour.”

“That’s fair, but before you go… I managed to set something by way of an apology,” said Yuuko, “there should be a _surprise_ waiting for you when you arrive in New York.”

“What did you do?”

“If I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

Yuuri scrunched up his nose. He hated surprises.

“Have a safe flight!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He dropped the received down with a satisfying clack, before making his way to the gate and praying he could sleep through the entire flight.

* * *

Yuuri made a mental note to visit more shrines when he returned home at the end of the summer. Whoever he’d been praying to had most certainly not been listening. He almost wished there had been a noisy baby or a kangaroo kid to blame for his inability to sleep, but no. He had been keep awake for the full thirteen hour flight because of his own adrenaline and anxiety. Adrenaline which was now starting to crash down around him, and flow into a wave of full blown exhaustion.

His mind started to race though all the possible “surprises” Yuuko could have come up with. He could be greeted by a mariachi band the as soon as he reached the “Welcome to America” sign, or be picked up from the airport by a male stripper and die from sheer mortification before he even left the airport, (the latter definitely would be within the bounds of Yuuko’s wild sense of humor).

Despite his pessimistic imagination, leaning against the metal barrier just beyond the customs gate, was the best surprise Yuuri could have asked for.

Mr. Phichit Chulanont, ever the height of fashion, stood out spectacularly in a two-toned neon windbreaker and acid wash jeans, as a pair of wide brimmed sunglasses sat precariously on the top of his head. He rounded out the look with a bright orange fanny pack, and a pair of crisp white sneakers. Even Yuuri could admit, the American style suited him perfectly.

A large poster with the words, _LOOKING FOR MR. FOUR-EYES KATSUKI,_ hung limply in his hands as Phichit a busied himself with adjusting the buttons on his WalkMan. Yuuri rolled his eyes as he walked up to his friend.

A variable ballet prodigy, and the perfect counter-balance to Yuuri’s more reserved nature, Phichit Chulanout had joined the Tokyo Ballet Gakko at thirteen, and had glued himself to Yuuri’s side the moment he walked through the door.

“He certainly has more than enough raw talent,” said Minako, all those years ago, “let’s just see if he can figure out what to do with it.”

Filled with boundless enthusiasm, it shocked few people when Phichit was promoted as a soloist and character artist at only 16. It shocked even fewer people when his skills and enthusiasm captured the eye of George Balanchine and the New York City Ballet. When Phichit departured from the Tokyo Ballet for the Big Apple a little over four years ago, it had broken Yuuri’s heart, but steeled his resolve, and given him a new goal; “You can sit here and be sad about me leaving, or you can work your ass off and come see me when you tour in New York.”

Countless international tours and several promotions later, Yuuri had finally made good on his promise.

“Really Phichit, I could have walked right past you and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“Yuuri!” said Phichit, dropping the sign as he threw his arms around his friend in a long awaited hug, “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too,” said Yuuri, grinning from ear to ear.

“God, look at you!” said Phichit, taking a step back to examine his friend, “Did you get taller?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, if I may be so bold, the principal dancer look suits you,” his eyes lingered for an extra moment on Yuuri’s thighs, “you could break a melon in half with those things.”

“Phichit!”

“Hey, you can’t get mad if it’s the truth,” he shrugged, not looking the least bit remorseful, “let’s get out of here, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“I thought _you_ picking me up from the airport was Yuuko’s surprise?”

“It was. _Now_ it’s time for _my_ surprise,” he said, throwing Yuuri’s bag over his shoulder as he headed toward the subway.

“No, Phich, really, I’m exhausted. I haven’t properly slept in days, and I smell gross.”

Phichit turned on his heel as he a stepped closer to Yuuri to assess the severity of his stink, “I’ll concede to a shower, but you’re not missing out on the rest of the surprise.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. He already knew this was a battle he couldn’t win, “Fine, but at least try and leave me some time to take a nap before the meeting tonight.”

Phichit dropped a subway token into Yuuri’s hand with a catlike grin, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

“I know it has to be one of these,” said Phichit, cycling through the ream of keys tangled together around an enamel keychain. The six story walk up had left a mist of sweat on Yuuri’s brow and done nothing to help his already stale airplane smell. At this point, Yuuri could settle for the apartment being barren room and the shower simply a bucket of ice water. Anything to get him out of these sweaty clothes.

Phichit rattled the doorknob once more before theatrically swinging open the maplewood door, “Ta-dah!”

The apartment was most certainly not a barren room. A plush blue couch swallowed up most of the living room, as the open floor plan lead into the kitchen and small dining room. Two doors leading to their respective bedrooms framed the bathroom, and on the far wall, large rectangular windows looked out on to Central Park West and the lush green trees and open fields just across the road.

“You live here?”

“Oh, I wish,” said Phichit, dropping down on the sofa, “but this is just my ‘temporary residence,’ everybody in the company is going to be living in this building. You and I are simply lucky enough to get the best apartment.”

While Yuuri had no doubt about this being the best apartment, he had no idea how Phichit and Yuuri specifically had come to be in possession of it. Especially out of the dozens of other dancers who would soon become their neighbors.

“How did you manage to pull that one off?“

Phichit’s lips curled into a wolfish grin, “Wouldn’t you like to know…”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at him. There was definitely a story there.

“I pulled some strings with the great Madame Baronovskaya herself.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

“How do you kn—?”

“Go shower!” Phichit yelped, pointing towards the bathroom, “Your surprise is waiting, and we’re wasting daylight.”

Yuuri didn’t need to be told twice. Even on a hot late spring day, the scalding shower felt heavenly against his aching shoulders. He wrapped his arms his chest, trying to ease the stiffness out of his shoulder blades. In lieu of his neglected caffeine habit, he turned the water to its coldest setting to shock his system, before stepping into his new bedroom.

Delegating the task of organization to a time when he was more awake, Yuuri grabbed the first set of clothes he could find out of his duffle bag.  The pale grey slacks, polo shirt and blue sweater vest might not have been his first choice, but it would suit New York City’s notoriously fickle weather for today. Or at least until Yuuri adjusted to the patterns for himself.

“Ready to go?” said Phichit, now with a blue and yellow picnic blanket tucked under his arm.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Phichit paused in the doorway, tapping his finger against his chin, “Hmmm…”

“What?” said Yuuri.

“Wait here.” 

A moment later the clattering sounds of falling papers and shoes being tossed aside echoed out from Phichit’s bedroom.

Yuuri scoffed, “You’re still as messy as ever I take it?”

“Shut up!” 

Phichit reemerged with a pair of round black sunglasses clutched in the palm of his hand. Phichit snatched Yuuri’s regular glasses off as he placed the dark frames on Yuuri’s nose and turned his friend toward the mirror by the door.

“Thoughts?”

“Definitely not my normal look,” he said, adjusting the bridge of the glasses, “but I like it.”

“Change is good my friend,” said Phichit, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he reeach past him to open the door, “embrace it.”

To Yuuri’s infinite relief, Phichit’s surprise happened to be right across the street. After nearly being bit by a taxi, the pair settled under the shade a large oak tree with their blanket for a long awaited catch-up.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘secret spot’,” said Phichit, the soft crack of a baseball bat on the opposite side of the great lawn perforated his statement as Yuuri folded his arms behind his head, “but one of the older dancers from the NYBT showed me this place when I first arrived. It’s perfect in the spring when you need to just, well, chill out and enjoy the sunshine.”

Yuuri smiled up at his friend from behind his pair of borrowed shades, “It’s a perfect surprise, Phich, thank you.”

“So now that we’re finally face to face, I have to ask, how was it working with Béjart?” said Phichit, partially vibrating in excitement.

“He was lovely, very particular and the performance was a lot of pressure, but really wonderful to work with.”

Phichit wrinkled his nose with a scowl.

“What?”

“I’m not a newsroom groupie from  _Yomiuri Shimbun_. I’m not after the diplomatic answer, I’m looking for the dirt!”

“Well then you’re going to have to look somewhere else, because I am many things —“

“A principal dancer with the Tokyo Ballet, borderline insomniac, tragically single…”

“— but I am not a gossip.”

Phichit flopped back onto the picnic blanket, arms folded across his chest and his lower lip turned up in a dramatic pout.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, but could fight the smile curling across his lips, “Wait until Yuuko gets here on Monday, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to fill your gossip quota.”

“Secondhand news is never the same,” Phichit sighed,  slapping the back of his hand to his brow dramatically, “I will just have to suffer! Starved of a good story’s satisfying conclusion!”

“Yes you will.”

“It’s just typical really,” said Phichit, continuing along, his pout entirely forgotten, “My best friend becomes the star of the Tokyo Ballet the second I leave, and and as soon as I arrive in New York the old fart goes and dies on me.”

“You didn’t know Balanchine was going to die,”

“But I _should_ have known. He was seventy-nine, Yuuri! _Seventy-nine!”_ he said, blowing a whip of his bangs out of his eyes, “but I’ve decided to look on the bright side.”

“Meaning?”

“In Balanchine’s absence, other directors have begun to... _flirt_ with the NYBT danseurs. Including Lilia Baronovskaya.”

“Lilia Baronovskaya does not flirt with anyone, especially not male danseurs a third her age.”

“Not like _that,”_ said Phichit, “but this whole experience is my ‘test run,’ to see if she thinks the ABT is the right fit for me.”

“Phichit, that’s wonderful, congratulations.”

“Nothing is set in stone yet,” he sighed, looking up at the branches above them as a soft breeze cut through the trees, “but I’ve got a good feeling about this summer, Yuuri.”

“Me too.”

* * *

Phichit let out a low whistle as he and Yuuri walked through back doors of the Metropolitan Opera House. Despite Phichit’s promise at the airport, Yuuri had not had time to enjoy a nap. While their sunny afternoon in the park left him just refreshed enough that he wasn’t a total walking corspe, his anxious disposition was the only thing truly keeping him alert at this point in the day.  A group of around thirty dancers was already assembled on the stage as the duo made their way down the left aisle of the theater.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Or is that Mr. Phichit Chaulanout?”

“Christophe Giaaaacometti, you sly dog!” 

The tall gentleman vaulted over the edge of the stage as Phichit practically leapt into his arms. A string rapid fire greetings shot out from both of them as Yuuri caught up to pair where they stopped in the middle of the aisle.

“I was hoping you’d be here!”

_“Mon cher,_ I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

The man’s blonde hair was dyed on top with hints of brown purposefully showing around near the base of his neck. The sleeves of his peach dress shirt were rolled up as if he were about to set down to read the Sunday Times, and the shirt itself was cinched at the waist by a pair of beige slacks, cut at the ankle as the hemline hovered just above a pair of polished brown loafers. Despite the plain colours and the overall simple look, the man looked effortlessly chic and far more put together than Yuuri and Phichit combined.

“And who your charming companion?” said the gentleman, turning his attention to Yuuri, “Really Phichit, if I had known you were hiding such handsome companions in New York, I might have been convinced to stay.”

“Christophe, this is Yuuri Katsuki, one of my oldest friends in the dance world. And Yuuri this is Christophe Giacometti of the Paris Opera Ballet. We meet last year when he was—"

“Ah yes! Mr. Katsuki of _The Kabuki_ fame!” said Christophe, “I was so hoping to see your tour in Paris last year, but alas,” turning his head to Phichit, “I was here in New York trying to be wooed away from Paris all together.”

“A fruitless endeavor, sadly,” said Phichit.

“I would take quite a lot more than your sparkling company to convince me to leave Paris, Phichit. As much as I do enjoy it.”

“It’s lovely to meet you Mr. Giacometti,” said Yuuri, shaking Chris’ hand.

“Oh please, call me Chris.”

Phichit grunted as he threw his weight against the high wall of the stage, gracelessly throwing a leg over the side. Chris offered Yuuri a hand as he lifted himself onto the black and shocking dusty stage.

With the back curtain pulled down Yuuri took in the true vastness of the setting. The stage alone was daunting, framed by exposed cables designed to lift and move the massive curtains and set pieces. The opera boxes framed the sea of velvet chairs in the orchestra row, while above their heads the dark red seats blurred into the far away nosebleeds, their countless number intermingling with the glow of the twinkling chandelier.

The sound of expensive heels clacking against the stage snapped Yuuri out of his reverent observation and focused his attention on the tall thin woman walking across to center stage.

“Good evening children.”

Somewhere in the crowd of dancers Yuuri thought he heard a muffled laugh. He had no idea what was so funny; the woman standing before them looked utterly terrifying.

“My name is Lilia Baranovskaya. Welcome to New York.”

Christophe whooped and clapped as the room broke into applause, Lilia cracked the smallest smile as she inclined her head to the crowd with a soft bow. Yuuri smiled, feeling the tension break ever so slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Giacometti,” said Lilia, “I hope you each had a pleasant journey to the city. But I’m sure some of you are still wondering why you’ve been asked here in the first place.”

The stern woman cleared her throat, steadying her weight in her spindly black heels as she prepared to speak.

“As I’m certain you all know the last…” she paused, looking for the right word to encompass how far back she wanted to go, “century,” she decided, “has been a tumultuous one.”

A murmur of agreement echoed through the crowd. The lines that had been drawn (and redrawn) between the national allegiances of the current assembly would have made any politician’s head spin.

“I am not so naive to think that every issue of global diplomacy can be solved through dance, but you can consider this my own attempt to make amends for these decades of division. I cannot mend the world, but I like to think I have _some_ power in the world of ballet.”

Phichit leaned in close to Yuuri’s ear, “That’s a fucking understatement.”

“Standing before me are the greatest names in dance today, but only a handful of you have ever met in person. This,” said Lilia, gesturing to the group of relative strangers, “is one of the great crimes of this century of division. That the arts must suffer while politics rolls on.”

“And while it is my intention to change that, to try and mend the wounds of separation and division, I cannot force this to happen. The only way this experiment can work is if you each decide to leave politics at the door. From here on out, we are one company, regardless of nationality or national allegiance. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” said Christophe just over Yuuri’s shoulder. A chorus of “yes ma’am,” and collective nodding sounded back at Lilia’s directive.

“Good,” she smiled, “now down to the true business of the evening. I have called you all here because I plan to stage a performance that the world cannot ignore. Two performances actually,” she said turning a page on her clipboard, “ _Giselle_ and _Swan Lake_ to run in tandem at the end of the summer. This gives us three months to prepare and two months to perform.”

Yuuri sucked in a shallow breath through his teeth. Even taking into consideration the fact that several of these dancers had likely performed these shows in the past, three months was a break neck speed for anyone, even for the “greatest names in dance today.”

“Some of you have already moved in, but for those of you that haven’t, your lodgings are located at 120 W 88th street. Trust me when I say there are scores of Juilliard undergraduates who would kill to have your apartments right now.”

Despite her more serious tone, a ripple of laughter cut through the crowd. Perhaps this was the stern ex-Soviet prima’s personal brand of humour.

“Rehearsals will take place either here at the Opera House, or downtown at the ABT Studios on 19th and Broadway,” murmurs passed through the crowd again, “for those of you currently confused by the grid system, I offer this singular piece of advice… you’ll get used to it.”

Even Yuuri couldn’t help but crack a smile at that.

“Lastly, auditions. Every one of your ballet masters and directors has sent a veritable essay about each of you. Reams of paper espousing your virtues, and proclaiming that you are all prodigies and ‘the next great so-and-so’.”

“They have sent me these glowing recommendations… but I haven’t read a single one of them, nor do I ever plan to.”

You could have heard a pin drop from the top balcony.

“I know your reputations, I know what has be asked of you in the past. I know you are the best in the world, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now. But frankly, I don’t care who your ballet master _thinks_ you are, I want to _know_ who you are.”

“For the audition, you can choose any piece of music you like, as long as it is not from _Giselle_ or _Swan Lake._ You are allowed to work together with another dancer if you feel so inclined, you can choose a modern piece of music if that suits your taste… hell, you can even forgo ballet all together and pick a different style of dance, as long as you think it showcases _who you are._ Don’t go into this audition and show me your resume, show me _you.”_

“You have one week, ladies and gentlemen,” she closed her clipboard turning to go, before adding almost as an afterthought, “make it count.”

The frightening strangeness of the situation seeped into Yuuri’s skin as they stood there in the middle of the stage. Here, on the other side of the planet, over a decade into his career, he felt like he was right back where he started — eleven years old, auditioning for the Gakko, and scared out of his mind.

Lilia offered a final “goodnight” to her newly minted ballet company before disappearing behind the curtain and leaving the group in stunned silence.

“Well,” said Phichit after only the briefest pause, “it’s official. She’s terrifying.”

“I thought you said you knew her,” said Yuuri.

“Meeting her one-on-one is one thing, but apparently in front of a crowd… she goes full Soviet General mode.”

Christophe smacked Phichit on the back of the head, “don’t ever let her hear you say that.”

“Of course not! I like my head on my shoulders, thank you very much,” he said, “come on, let’s get out of here before Four-Eyes falls asleep right on the stage.”

Yuuri scoffed. As much as he hated the teasing nickname, for once he couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yuuko Toyomura - Yuuko’s official maiden according to a YOI photobook from 2018.  
> 2\. Tokyo Ballet Gakko - The ballet academy attached to the Tokyo Ballet.  
> 3\. George Balanchine - Co-founder and long time artistic director of the New York City Ballet (not to be confused with the American Ballet Theatre). He was a titan of the dance world in the mid-20th century (if a bit of a chauvinist).  
> 4\. “and the old fart goes and dies on me” - Balanchine died in 1983, but kept working until the very end of his life.  
> 5\. Maurice Béjart - Founder of the now famous Béjart Ballet in Lausaunne, Switzerland, Béjart travelled the world over the course of his career working with dozens of famous ballet companies. He worked with the Tokyo Ballet in the 1980s, and choreographed The Kabuki, specifically for the Tokyo Ballet’s repertoire, in 1986. In this AU, Yuuri was the leading danseur in the ’86 production.  
> 6\. Yomiuri Shimbun - Japan’s largest newspaper, known for their conservative stance and writing style.  
> 7\. ABT vs. NYBT - There is a long standing rivalry between the two companies. And while neither is strictly “better” the American Ballet Theatre was award the status of “America’s National Ballet Theatre” in 2006.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS A BEAST. It may not seem like much but it was killing me these past 3 weeks getting the characterization just right.
> 
> In this world, I’ve aged Phichit up slightly to 22 years old, instead of 20. It’s not likely to change much, but for the sake of clarity…  
> 1978 — Phichit joins the Tokyo Ballet Gakko at 13.  
> 1982 — He travels to the United States at 17.  
> 1983 — Phichit is 18 when Balanchine dies.  
> 1987 — Lilia begins “courting” Phichit about joining the ABT at 22.
> 
> At some point I plan on posting a longer timeline with the major events of the plot, buuuut I can’t right now because it would spoil waaaaay too much. So please bear with me through the confusion, I promise it will all make sense soon!


	5. Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri is hit by pangs of homesickness. Victor learns to make new friends.

_Tokyo 1975._

_Yuuri loved this spot in the rafters. His lanky legs hung over the edge of the elevated catwalk, while the light board flickered with it’s familiar read and green switches along the far wall, and the massive spotlights radiated heat towards him from all sides, kindly keeping the drafty Decemeber chill at bay._

_After four months of living in the freezing capital, he’d discovered one of the best way to fight off homesickness was people watching. And while his teachers would have thrown a fit if he sat alone in a park on his day off from the_ Gakko _, there was no rule against watching the older dancers._

Technically _he wasn’t allowed to be up here… but what Minako didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. The aforementioned dancing master sat on a high stool in the downstage corner of the blackbox theater. Her blue shawl dropped over the edge of the chair, and added to the regal image that her posture and general demeanor already created. She flipped through the pages of her sacred black notebook as she tapped her pen against her chin._

 _“Wonderful, alright…” said Minako, her voice cut above the chatter of the dancers, “_ _Morishita-san, Shimizu-san, can I see the_ pas-du-deus _once more please? Seems like a good way to cap off a long rehearsal.”_

_Yuuri silently cheered; the sugar plum_ pas-du-deus _was his favorite, and_ _Morishita-san and Shimizu-san were absolute masters of it._

_Minako pushed the cassette player down before returning to her high wooden throne against the wall, while the other dancers began to stretch in a semi-circle surrounding the outside edge of the stage. Yuuri thought they looked like delicate beautiful insects, with their heads held high to watch the_ pas-du-deus, _while their chests were pressed almost entirely even to the floor._

_[The opening notes of the harp rang through the small theater,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qy6dlGpC3Ns) filling the space with a warmth and reverence that contrasted the cold just outside the theater._

_Even without their hair done up in the fine powdered wigs, and dressed only in their loose rehearsal sweats, the pair was simply breathtaking. From the smallest flick of the wrist and the most delicate_ demi-plie _, to the thunderous lifts timed to the swell of an invisible orchestra, their performance was magnetic and intimate and positively mesmerizing._

_And even with the crowd of fellow dancers around them, Yuuri could tell they weren’t dancing for an audience; they were dancing for each other. Every time their eyes met after one of Morishita-san’s perfect_ fouettes, _her smile would shine a little brighter and Shimizu-san’s eyes would just sparkle when he looked back at his fiancee._

_Yuuri hoped someone might look at him like that someday._

_There smiles never faltered as the moved through the final poses and the music faded behind a round of applause from the other dancers. Yuuri clapped along despite himself, he knew someone might notice him if he made too much noise, but it felt wrong not to applaud a truly spectacular performance._

_“Well done everyone, that’s it for today,” said Minako, “get some rest, and I’ll see you all at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon.”_

_The dancers collected their bags and shuffled toward the door as Minako paced the small stage of the blackbox rehearsal theater. Even from as far away as he was Yuuri could see the crease of concentration in her brow as she made quick, sharp strokes in her journal. She pivoted at the edge of the stage and turned back toward the wooden._

_Her arms froze in midair as she wrapped her shawl halfway around herself, and a smile played at her lips._

_“I know you’re up there,” she said, back still turned._

_Yuuri froze. He didn’t dare make a sound._

Could be talking to someone else? Surely she couldn’t have seen him. Maybe if he moved very slowly…

_“I can still see you, Yuuri.”_

Dammit.

_The words escaped his lips at barely above a whisper,“How did you know I was up here?”_

_Minako smiled, “Because I know everything.”_

_Yuuri seriously doubted that, but was in no place to judge considering_ she _was the one who found_ his _hiding place in a pitch black rehearsal theater._

_“Did you really think you could sneak in and out of my theater and I wouldn’t notice?” she asked, raising an eyebrow._

_Perhaps Yuuri should have been more afraid — if it had been anyone else to spot him, he could have been in serious trouble. But it was Minako, and he couldn’t fight back a smile._

_“Now get down from there before you break your neck. Your mother would kill me if I let anything happen to you.”_

_As he reached the edge of the lighting catwalk, he vaulted down the ladder, taking the steps two at a time. Minako rolled her eyes, pretending not to notice one of the_ Gakko’s _youngest students being so careless with their ever essential feet and ankles._

_“Can you pass me those shoes by the curtain?” said Minako. Yuuri doubled back a few paces to grab the shoes behind him._

_It did not escape Minako’s notice that Yuuri slipped the ribbons back into the heel of the shoes with an extra care than was needed. Nor did it escape her notice that he held the shoes like they were made of glass. And most importantly, the genuine smile on Yuuri’s lips as he paused midstep to admire the shoes, did not escape her notice at all._

_She looked at him for a long moment, saying nothing, her eyes filled with tenderness and a touch of curiosity as he held the shoes. She hadn’t seen nearly often enough since the boy moved to Tokyo, and she was intent on doing whatever it took to make it stay, “I wonder…”_

_She lifted a finger in the air, indicating she wanted her student to stay put, and disappeared behind the curtain._

_“Why don’t you give these a try…” she offered him a pair of pointe shoes that had clearly seen better days. The pale pink had faded to almost grey and the ribbons where beginning to fray at the ends, but the boxes still looked like they had a bit of life left in them._

_“They’re a bit worn I’ll admit,” said Minako, taking in Yuuri’s hesitation, “but they’ll certainly feel better than those ones with the new boxes.”_

_Yuuri did a double take, glancing quickly between Minako and shoes. He was certain he must have misunderstood her, “You want me to try them on?”_

_“Would I have given them to you if I didn’t?”_ _she said with a wink._

_Yuuri’s hand’s shook with excitement as Minako helped him fasten the ribbons. He gingerly got to his feet, taking a few hesitant steps (looking some what a kin to a cat wearing slippers), before lifting himself into a full_ arabesque _and quickly crashing back to the floor._

_“Easy now, you’re a long way off from mastering anything like that,” said Minako, nodding towards the cassette player and the Tchaikovsky tape within, “but I think you might get there eventually.”_

_Yuuri took a deep breath, rising back to his feet he nodded, more determined than ever._

_“We’ll start with a_ relevé,” _said Minako. She walked over to the cassette player and exchanged the tape. A smile rolled across her face as she swayed in time to the jauntier pop music. Yuuri stood again, smiling at Minako’s exaggerated movements as he shyly mimicked her with a slight sway in his hips._

“ _Now, let’s see how long you can hold the position…”_

…

The memory faded as Yuuri opened his eyes. A sliver of watery grey of the pre-dawn light peeked out from behind the curtain. It seemed almost silly to remember that he had once thought of Tokyo as ‘the other side of the world’, given he was now laying in bed on the _literal_ other side of the world.

He picked his wristwatch up off the side table.

5:43 stared unforgivingly back at him.

 _Stupid jet lag,_ he thought, flopping back on the mattress.

He knew any attempt to fall back asleep was futile. Yuuri could not pretend to call himself “a morning person”, but once he was up, it was too late.

The feeling of nostalgia and pangs of homesickness that had blanketed him in the dream still clung to him as he dragged himself out of bed and threw open the curtain. A thick net of early morning fog was blanketing the park below and mimicked the fog wrapped around his mind with almost hilarious accuracy.

While the temptation was strong to just throw himself back into bed and try and start the day over again in few hours, he knew his homesickness would still be waiting for him when he woke later that day.

No. He had learned long ago that there was only one thing that truly cured his homesickness.

He quickly unzipped his suitcase, rifling through the piles of clothes he still had yet to unpack, and smiled when he found exactly what he was looking for.

* * *

Victor was being followed.

He hadn’t been 100% certain of it when he left his apartment about twenty minutes ago, nor had he been certain after his first two laps around the reservoir. But now, as he turned to jog down the winding trails and paths just south of the baseball fields, he _knew_ he was being followed.

Only two questions remained now, _who_ was following him, and _why?_

And Victor was determined to find out.

He picked up his pace, still listening for footsteps following close behind as the path wound down a small hill and underneath a cramped stone bridge. Victor’s long braid thudded against his back as he darted around the corner on the opposite side of the bridge and waited. The footsteps grew quieter as the unknown figure drew nearer to the opposite end where Viktor was hiding.

_Who on earth was following him?_

The soft sound of crunching gravel echoed up the walls of the tunnel as the figure turned from side to side. The hushed _“blyat,”_ that the stranger uttered narrowed the options considerably. In truth, it still could be anyone, but then again, Victor knew there weren’t _that_ many Russian-speaking women with a specific interest in following him so early in the morning.

Victor hugged the outer wall of the bridge, making sure to stay hidden, as Yulia dashed out, passing Victor and looking ahead to where the path split off in three different directions.

 _“Blyat!”_ she said again. Her leg shook almost imperceptibly, as if she was fighting against the childish urge to stamp her foot in frustration. Victor suspected that stamping ones feet was not considered protocol for KGB “chaperones.”

“You’re following me,” he said at last, stepping out from his hiding place.

Yulia whipped around quickly, but kept her composure. The slightest raise of her brow as she met his gaze was the only indication that Yulia hadn’t expected him to stop, and even that said more, _‘I’m impressed’_ than, _‘I’m surprised.’_

“Yes I am.”

“Why?”

She raised her eyebrows with a touch of disbelief, “Because it’s my job, comrade. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“Well, yes,” said Victor, “but when you said ‘I won’t even notice you’re here,’ I thought that meant you’d be keeping your distance, not that you’d be stalking me on my morning jog.”

“Look, Victor, I like you, you seem nice, honest, and I want to trust you—”

“But?”

 _“But_ , we’ve only just meet and it’s my job to protect you—“

“And to make sure I don’t run away.”

Yulia exhaled sharply through her nose, “Yes, that too.”

“Well then, we seem to be an an impasse,” said Victor, crossing his arms.

“An impasse implies that you have something I need, comrade,” she said, mirroring his stance, “I need, _and will,_ keep doing my job, whether you like it or not.”

“I do have something you need.”

“Which is?”

“The offer of a day off.”

She quirked her lips to the side, “I’m listening.”

“As I understand it, your job is to watch us — Mila, Yuri, Georgi, and myself — to make sure we don’t sneak off, get into trouble, break the rules, or even, god forbid, _defect_ , on your watch. Correct?”

Yulia raised an eyebrow as if to ask _‘where are you going with this?’_ but said nothing. Victor continued.

“I know you likely can’t offer this right away, but I’d like to strike a deal. If I prove myself as worthy of your trust, you allow me one day a week to myself, no spying, no following, — I can even promise to keep Mila, Yura, and Georgi in line. Best off all, you and Ilya will get a day off. Everybody wins.”

Yulia frowned, “And what exactly are you offering as collateral? What’s your bargaining chip, comrade, to keep me from just doing my job as normal?”

“My honest word,” said Victor, “and my winning smile, of course.”

“You would have made a poor negotiator.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I never became a lawyer.”

She smiled, “I will consider your offer.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said with a grin.

“Well…” said Victor. He worried a dewy leaf beneath his heel as he shifted his weight between both feet.

“Well?” said Yulia.

“Now that I know your following me…”

“If you’re going to ask me to ‘get lost,’ the answer is —“

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

Yulia looked stunned. The sincerity in Victor’s voice had thrown her off more than anything else today.

“I was _going_ to ask if you wanted to finish the rest of my run with me?”

She chewed the inside of her lip, “Only if you insist, comrade.”

“I do,” Victor smiled.

He let Yulia set the pace as they continued down the winding paths and on towards the edge of the park.

* * *

Victor said goodbye Yulia in the building’s small lobby with the promise of a jog together later in the week (if she was determined to follow him, she might as well keep him company). He watched with an extra touch of curiosity as she vanished back out the revolving door. It made sense that Yulia and Ilya didn’t live in the same building as the rest of the company, but some part of Victor found it strange to see her leave; he half expected her to be living in the wall between his and Georgi’s room, primed for constant surveillance.

He let his hair down as he wound his way up the seemingly endless flight of stairs. His pin-straight locks had a slight kink in them as he shook out the braid, and the pads of his fingers caught unpleasantly against the grime on his scalp.

While the idea of a hot shower sounded heavenly as he turned the key in the lock, another, much louder sound, coming from the other side of his apartment door distracted him from any imaginations of a soothing soak.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Yuri Plisetsky was standing on top of his suitcase, — which itself was stacked on top of one of the kitchen stools — wielding a mop like it was the Sword of Stalingrad itself. His bedhead and dressing gown slipping off his shoulder gave the display an added layer of madness and completed the whole scene nicely.

The young dancer took no notice of Victor as he closed the door, seemingly determined to keep whacking the mop against the ceiling until his invisible foe was vanquished.

“Uh, Yuri…?”

_Tap. Tap._

“What?”

Victor had to admit, he made quite a picture — standing in an almost full _arabesque_ on top of one of the wooden stools from the kitchen — and Yuri, to his credit, seemed to find absolutely nothing unusual about it.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Victor, already moving on as he walked into the kitchen.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Georgi sat at the kitchen counter, wrapped up in a duvet as he huddled around his morning cup of coffee. He nodded sleepily as Victor approached and emptied the rest of the kettle into the spare mug for his silver-haired flatmate.

“So what’s with the…”

“Upstairs neighbors,” said Georgi, “they started playing pop music at six this morning, and Sleeping Ugly over there —“

“I heard that!” Yuri snapped.

“— has been trying to get their attention for the last 30 minutes,” said Georgi, grinning against the rim of his mug. “He started by throwing his shoes against the ceiling, and has gradually worked his way up to… whatever this is. You’re currently looking at ‘Plan D’.”

“Forget it!” said Yuri, throwing the mop down with a loud clack, “our neighbor’s must be deaf! Rude and deaf!” The teen leapt down from his tower and marched back to his room, slamming the door shut before the suitcase even hit the ground.

Georgi lifted his eyebrows, “Another peaceful morning…”

Victor scoffed, took a last sip of coffee, before finally reaching the bathroom and his well deserved shower.

The hot water felt amazing as it cascaded down Victor’s back and slipped through his hair. He’d worn it long nearly his whole life, but these days it was the longest it had ever been, stopping nearly at the base of his spine. It had quite early on become his signature feature, setting him apart in appearance before his skills as a dancer could do that for him.

He cleared the fogged-up mirror with the corner of his towel, admiring his appearance before grabbing his hair to put into a towel.

He paused just then, holding his hair back away from his face and angling his head so he couldn’t see the long strands behind him. He looked like a different person, perhaps the person he would be after his last season ended.

He wasn’t even sure he knew who that was.

Victor shook his head. He squeezed the rest of the water out before throwing on his clothes and returning to the kitchen for his much needed second cup of coffee.

“So,” said Georgi, nursing his coffee as if was a potion that could magically transform him into a morning person, “what’s your plan for the day?”

But before Victor could reply, there was a knock at the door. The two Russians looked at each other in a state of genuine confusion.

The Bolshoi dancers had neither the time nor the energy for introductions after Lilia’s speech last night. Yulia and Ilya had most likely already crafted themselves a spare key once they figured out which flat the boys were living in, and, even without a spare key of her own, Mila had never been perturbed by a locked door before.

Who else did they know? With a shrug, Victor walked over and opened the door and was greeted by a well dressed stranger.

“Hello,” said Victor, in his heavily accented English, “how can I help you?”

“ _Russian_ ,” said the stranger with a mischievous lilt in his tone, “oh, _this_ should be interesting.”The blonde man extended his hand with a smile, “I’m your neighbor, Christophe Giacometti, but you can call me Chris.”

“Ah ha!” came a voice from the other room. Suddenly Yuri came storming around the corner, “so it’s _you! You_ are the one making all that racket at stupid o’clock in the morning!” he said, casting his arm towards the ceiling.

Chris’ genuine smile turned to down right devious, “I can assure you,” he said swatting Yuri’s finger away, “that my nocturnal activities are entirely discrete, you would only hear them if I wanted to be heard.”

Georgi choked on his coffee.

Yuri’s mouth dropped open, unsure if his grasp of English was messing with him or if this Chris fellow truly had his mind in the gutter.

Chris raised his eyebrows with a grin, daring the teen to acknowledge the innuendo right in front of him.

“I am your neighbor,” he said, addressing all three men at once, “but I live down the hall with Mr. Crispino of _La Scala,_ and my colleague from _Paris,_ Mr. Nekola. They’ve gotten into an argument about proper bathroom etiquette, and I thought it best to excuse myself and look for friendlier company.”

His eyes landed on Yuri as if to question whether he’d found friendlier company at all.

“As long as he’s not the one who woke me up, he can stay as long as he likes,” said Yuri, already stalking back to his room.

“My name’s Victor, Victor Nikiforov,” he said extending his hand, “this is Georgi Popovich,” at the sound of his name Georgi tipped his mug in Chris’ direction, “and you’ve already met Yuri.”

“Yuri?” Chris seemed to find the name very amusing. Victor couldn’t understand why. “Lovely name, very unique,” Chris said with a smile.

“Would you like some coffee?” said Georgi, already getting a third mug down from the cabinet.

“I would love some.”

The three men chatted about the things that quickly unite those in their profession. They recalled their years at their respective academies, their favorite routines, particular dancing masters they never got along with, and retracing the journeys of visiting danseurs to see if anyone ever overlapped, before finally turning to the most pressing question of the week…

“So, what do you gentlemen have planned for Lilia’s audition on Friday?”

Victor looked at Georgi who simply shrugged.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” said Victor, “maybe Mila and I could —“

“Nope,” said Georgi.

He was holding his coffee mug up to his nose and leaving Victor in painful suspense with his interruption.

“The kitten already asked her last night,” he said, reaching for the last dregs at the bottom of the coffee pot.

“Oh,” said Victor. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might need to come up with an entirely new routine in seven days. Frankly it hadn’t occurred to anyone.

“Personally I think the best place to start is with the music,” said Christophe, drumming his fingers on the side of hismug, “the rest of the routine just falls into place when you find the perfect piece,” he stopped drumming, “actually, I was planning on heading to the record store over on 57th street just this afternoon, would either of you gentlemen care to join me now?”

“You boys have fun,” said Georgi, turning back towards his room.

“You’re not coming with us, Monsieur Popovich?”

“No, this jet lag is kicking my ass, I’m going back to bed,” he said, “see you tomorrow Victor.”

Victor scoffed, knowing full well that Georgi might truly sleep until tomorrow morning.

“What interesting friends you have Monsieur Nikiforov.”

“Never a dull moment,” said Victor as he grabbed his keys off the counter beside the door and followed Chris out into the hall.

* * *

The plastic cassette tape boxes clicked between Victor’s fingers as he combed through a the endless wall of pop singles. He had been staring at this one wall for nearly an hour, but was no closer to picking a piece than he had been when they walked in the door.

Christophe had criminally undersold how much of a marvel the store truly was. While the thirty-one extra blocks before breakfast would surely catch up with Victor by the afternoon, the unexpected adventure had been worth the delay. Every corner of the shop was stacked high with records, cassettes cases, and even scattered mounds of sheet music. Any surface left uncovered by the music itself, was decked out in posters for concerts and festivals long since passed. It was an abundance of organized clutter that Victor was beginning to realize was typically American.

“Chris, this place is amazing, how did you know it was here?”

“My dear Victor, I could hardly call myself a ‘worldly gentleman’ if this was my first time in New York City,” he said with a smile. The voice came from about ten feet above Victor’s head; Chris was perched on one of those sliding ladders Victor had heard of so often in his childhood bedtime stories, but had never seen in person.

“Find anything yet?”

“No,” said Victor, “I feel spoiled for choice and I’m struggling to narrow down those choices.”

 _“Spoiled for choice,”_ Chris echoed as he stepped down the ladder, “a rare treat for you given what I’ve heard about the rather spartan Soviet lifestyle.”

Victor raised an eyebrow.

“But tell me,” said Chris, “what passes for good music in your frozen home land?”

“Military marches. They are a favorite of the proletariat youth.”

Chris flashed Victor a stunned before Victor cracked a grin and began to laugh, “I’m teasing Chris, but it certainly looked like you believed me.”

“I did!” Chris laughed, “You should have been a gambler my friend, your poker face is remarkable.”

“My parents were the old fashioned sort when it came to music, so I grew up on Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky, really my first introduction to ballet came through the music rather than dance.”

“How positively bourgeois!” Chris teased.

“Maybe so, but given my limited early introductions to modern music and our particular chosen profession, the most modern artist I’ve listened to in the last twenty years is Shostakovich.”

“Well you’ve come to the right person, comrade!” Chris said with a wink, “Now let’s see here…”

Chris brushed his fingers over the rows of records as they moved through the more recent releases back towards the 50s and 60s.

 _“Prince_ and _Queen_ are both personal favorites of mine,” he said, “but I fear their names might offend your communist sensibilities.”

“You’re enjoying this ‘educating-the-Soviet-foreigner’ bit, aren’t you?”

“Immensely,” Chris replied with a shit-eating grin.

“Here we go, this is more like it,” he said stopping in front of a neon pink arrow that read, **60s Jazz, etc.** “You start on that side and work your way towards me, pull out anything that catches your eye.”

Vibrant geometric patterns and names in an unfamiliar alphabet leapt out at Victor as he flipped through the record covers. His English wasn’t terrible, likely the best of the Russian cohort on this trip, but he would be the first to admit that reading it for too long gave him a nasty headache.

 _“Mon dieu!_ Perfect!” Chris gasped, clutching a record so close to his chest that Victor worried he might crack the disk.

“Find something?”

“The _perfect_ something!” Chris corrected, tapping his finger against his chin, “although remind me later I need to go shoes shopping.”

Victor raised an eyebrow at Chris’ cryptic message but didn’t press on. He was quickly learning that his new friend was an absolute fiend when it came to surprises.

“Any luck on your end?”

“I’ve found four pieces that look interesting, but I’ve never heard any of these out loud before.”

Chris wheeled around to the other side of the rack to investigate Victor’s choices.

“Hmmm,” Chris sighed, looking back and forth between Victor and the records. As if he could, by by simply looking for long enough, understand Victor’s mind and pick the piece accordingly.

“Try this one,” he said at last, “I have a feeling it is very… ‘you’.”

“Well if I am wandering away from classical for this audition, I trust your judgement,” Victor scoffed, “I suppose I don’t have much choice _but_ to trust you.”

“None at all!” Chris grinned, “and for being so kind as to trust me,” he said taking the record from Victor’s grasp, “this is on me, call it as celebration of a new friendship.”

“Lilia would be thrilled to hear you say that.”

“Yes,” Chris laughed, “I’m sure she would.”

The pair fell into an animated chat as they wandered back uptown. Every few of blocks Chris would interrupt himself with an anecdote about a _“perfect cafe”_ or a _“wonderful bookshop”_ that Victor absolutely needed to visit before going home, stating at each example, _“no trip to New York is complete without it!”_

“Thank you for a wonderfully productive morning Mr. Nikiforov,” said Chris, as they reached the door of — what the Swiss gentleman had already named — ‘The Russian Residence’, “but if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a shop that will sell me the shoes I need.”

Victor scoffed, already trying to imagine what Chris could possibly be planning. Just as Chris turned to go, the familiar sound of a muffled speaker began to echo down from the ceiling. Their upstairs neighbors had to be from the company as well because it seemed like the never stopped playing music.

“Chris, before you go, do you know who’s on top?” Victor said glancing up at the ceiling.

Christophe raised his eyebrows with a sly smile, “Well, you Russians waste no time at all… but you’re very attractive Victor, you could really have anyone you want. No need to settle so quickly.”

Victor’s eyes shot wide, his momentary confusion evaporating with a wave of embarrassment, “No, no, no, no! Chris, that’s not what I… I mean I’m not… well I’m _not_ not…”

Christophe’s laugh was bright and unrestrained, “I’m only teasing, god you should have seen your face!”

Although he could still feel a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, Victor couldn’t help but laugh along.

“But upstairs… let me think…” Christophe tapped his finger against his chin, “What floor is this?”

“The fifth floor.”

Christophe’s mouth shaped itself into a soundless ‘aah’ of recognition, “That apartment belongs to Mr. Chulanout and Mr. Katsuki, really nice guys, I’m sure you’ll meet them soon enough,” he said with a smile. Chris offered Victor a final goodbye, promising to meet up later in the week, before disappearing around the corner just as Victor closed the apartment door.

Victor looked at the clock; it wasn’t even 11:00 yet. He opened the barren fridge and was greeted only by a carton of six eggs and a stick of butter in a fluorescent green packet. _Well, I guess this will have to do for now,_ he thought cracking all six eggs into the pan with a satisfying sizzle.

Yuri and Georgi would be lured out of bed shortly at the smell of their late breakfast, and while thankful for the company, Victor relished in his last moments of peaceful solitude.

He glanced over to the small kitchen table, seeing his newly purchased record peaking out of the corner of the yellow plastic bag. He gave the eggs a quick stir before lifting the record from it’s sleeve, jogging over to the record player in the living room and finally dropped the needle into place.

[The marching tap of a cymbal and drum set rolled languidly through the air](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wH-pk2vZG2M) as Victor returned to the kitchen with a skip in his step, already planning his masterful audition routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “Morishita-san, Shimizu-san,” — Yuko Morishita, dubbed the ‘Prima Ballerina of the World’ and the ‘Pearl of the Orient,’ she was the first Japanese ballet dancer to flourish on the international scene. She and her husband, Tetsutarō Shimizu, were both famous ballet dancers throughout the 1970s and 80s. Yuuri’s flashback/ dream takes place is 1975; the pair married in 1976.
> 
> 2\. “Sword of Stalingrad” — The Sword of Stalingrad is a bejeweled ceremonial longsword specially forged and inscribed by command of King George VI as a token of homage from the British people to the Soviet defenders of the city during the Battle of Stalingrad.
> 
> 3\. “Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky” — Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840—1893) was a Russian composer most famously known today for the Nutcracker ballet, and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844—1908) was a contemporary of Tchaikovsky and is best know for the Sheherazade symphony.
> 
> 4\. “…in the last twenty years is Shostakovich.” — While admittedly more modern than either of Victor’s other two examples, Dmitri Shostakovich’s (1906—1975) most famous work was the Leningrad Symphony, completed to honor the people of Leningrad suffering under the Nazi siege of the city in the Second World War, (a.k.a. still not all that modern in the 1980s).
> 
> *Mushu voice*
> 
> I LIIIIIIIIVEEEEE!!
> 
> And so does this fandom because oooOOOH MY GOD ICE ADOLESCENSE TRAILER.  
> AAAHHHHHHH!!
> 
> But thank you to those of you that have stuck around! I’ve been battling SERIOUS writers block for a few weeks now, but I’m (hopefully) back on at least a monthly basis. I have NOT given up on this story and I have no intentions to!
> 
> Special shout out to eternal queen @aeriamamaduck for keeping me sane.
> 
> Thanks for reading! xoxo


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